Driving into the Deep South

Driving into the Deep South with my Demon

The windshield wipers shoot, "whucka-whucka-whucka," 
counting off the miles from Montgomery to Mobile

in the light rain here in the low hill country 
that flattens to the sea like a wrinkled sheet.

The radio stations have all turned static-- 
except for the ululation of a pentecostal preacher . . .

he's pushing the Holy Ghost--but it's a hard sell 
even for me, half-hypnotized, here in the car.

I want to stop, pull over, shut my eyes 
just for thirty seconds--sleep--dream,

but my demon impels me onward over
the asphalt edge of the moon-tinged earth

studded with row on row of cotton bolls
stuck into the deep black dirt like stars . . . .

My demon's singing-like some forgotten field holler
or the highway cry of a bluesman whose sold his soul,

driving me deeper and deeper into the deep South 
past moonlight and memory-to the lost horizon-home.